To stones by epitaphs: be call'd great master Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves, These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves: Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing THE SLAVES. An Elegy. If late I paused upon the twilight plain Of Fontenoy, to weep the free-born brave; Sure fancy now may cross the western main, And melt in sadder pity for the slave. Lo! where to yon plantation drooping goes, The sable herd of human kind, while near Stalks a pale despot, and around him throws The scourge that wakes-that punishes the tear. O'er the far beach the mournful murmurer strays, E'en at this moment, on the burning gale And can that sex's softness nought avail Must naked woman shriek amid the throng? O cease to think, my soul! what thousands die By suicide, and toils extreme despair: Thousands, who never rais'd to heaven the eye, Thousands, who fear'd no punishment, but there. Are drops of blood the horrible manure Yes, their keen sorrows are the sweets we blend Yes, 'tis their anguish mantles in the bowl, Their sighs excite the Briton's drunken joy; Those ignorant suff'rers know not of a soul, That we enlighten'd may its hopes destroy. And there are men, who leaning on the laws, What they have purchas'd claim a right to hold Cursed be the tenure, and cursed its cruel causeFreedom's a dearer property than gold! And there are men, with shameless front have said, That nature form'd the negroes for disgrace; That on their limbs subjection is display'dThe doom of slavery stampt upon their face.' Send your stern gaze from Lapland to the Line, And every region's natives fairly scan, Their forms, their force, their faculties combine, And own the vast variety of man! Then why suppose yourself the chosen few, Enforce the labour, and inflict the wound? 'Tis sordid interest guides you; bent on gain, Ah! how can he, whose daily lot is grief, Can he believe the tongue that speaks of God? For when he sees the female of his heart, Alas! he steals him from the loathsome shed, What time moist midnight blows her venom'd breath, And musing, how he long has toil'd and bled, Drinks the dire balsam of consoling deatir! Haste, haste, ye winds, on swiftest pinions fly, Say that in future, negroes shall be blest, Rank'd e'en as men, and men's just rights enjoy ; Be neither sold, nor purchased, nor oppress'd, No grief shall wither, and no stripes destroy. Say that fair freedom bends her holy flight Then shall proud Albion's crown, where laurels twine. Torn from the bosom of the raging sea, Boast 'midst the glorious leaves, a gem divine, The radiant gem of pure humanity! |